Summer Ch. 12 Gwen’s Story 1

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His name was Mr Keitel, he was the general science teacher, one of the stock teachers who could be found in every school staffroom throughout the United Kingdom; solid and dependable, dressed in his tweed jacket with the leather elbows, chalk in one pocket and a pipe and a pouch of tobacco in the other.

Because of his unusual name the school legend told that he was German; and he could have passed for the archetypal German although in our uninformed state just the name was enough for us to build a web of intrigue and stories around him. He was tall and fair, a high angular face with a pale moustache and pale blue piercing eyes; reminiscent of an old Teutonic knight from the colour plates in our history books, he had the caste of the duelling Junker about him.

He was a good teacher, disciplined and respected. He would take the time out for us kids and he knew how to make us laugh in class. He treated us with respect and in the main it was appreciated and returned. I don’t think he turned out any rocket scientists, not from my year at least, but he did give us a reasonable grounding in the intricacies of things scientific from biology to chemistry and back through a little physics.

We learned how to master the small Bunsen burners connected through little rubber hoses to gas taps on our desks; and the workings of the human eye from a rough mock up of a ‘camera obscura’ made with a hole pierced through the science lab blackout curtains; we also got stiff necks from spending many a lesson looking up at the ceiling and the rough and ready images he projected there. But he got his message across, often battering it into even the roughest set of kids, bound for a life of manual work hewing coal or pouring molten steel. Kids who could see no connection between the science that Mr. Keitel had promulgated and the fossils that they often found buried deep in the layers of coal and picked up, briefly wondered about, before tossing them back onto the conveyor belt and turning back to the job in hand.

He wasn’t old, although to us kids he was already as ancient as all teachers are and he had been married; it was common knowledge that his wife had died some years before. He was always active in the school, not a ‘nine to five’ teacher. He ran the science club, the photography club and the chess club; all afterschool or lunchtime activities. He was one of the more popular teachers.

Gwen had joined the photographic club a year or so earlier. She was averagely talented as photographer but it was the developing and printing where she excelled. She had real feel for the darkroom work and quickly became the club’s technical wiz. She and Mr Keitel would work together side by side in the darkroom; consulting on problems but often working together in comfortable silence. They developed a mutual respect for each other’s expertise, Mr Keitel for his experience and Gwen for her talent. It was a partnership that worked well.

It was the height of summer and the school had already broken up for the holidays but the school summer activities continued as they did every summer; summer fayres to raise money, school trips, open days, etc. And all these events created a huge amount of work for the photographic club and in particular for Gwen and Mr Keitel. The club would take hundreds of photos at these events and it was Gwen and Mr Keitel who developed and printed them. Once printed the photos were then sold to raise additional funds for the school and the club.

Like all darkrooms the school darkroom was small and hot and the while the small extractor fan struggled to take away the smell of the chemicals it did nothing to dispel the heat; and the summer was a hot one. By agreement and by necessity Mr Keital took to working in shorts and T shirt while Gwen wore her gym skirt and either her polo or an old school shirt; and they still sweated.

They had a routine, she handled the printing and he developed and washed the exposed papers. A simple routine in a confined space and they worked shoulder to shoulder, close, arms and shoulders touching. They worked quickly and efficiently, often without speaking, a good team and the prints quickly rolled off the production line to be hung up to dry.

For some time now Mr Keitel had slowly become increasingly aware of Gwen as a young woman. The proximity of working together, the young girl smell of her, the casual contact, arm against arm, hip against hip, had, on a growing number of occasions, left him excited and semi erect. He was not particularly worried by this, in his years of teaching he had never been particularly troubled by the presence of young girls and if he had he had controlled it without too much difficulty. Being surrounded by growing, nubile young girls was part of the job and as part of the job he had always refused to let it affect him.

Part of him recognised that since his wife had died in an accident three years ago he had not had a sexual partner and still being a relatively young man he was feeling the loss of sex more keenly as time went by; but finding a suitable willing girl as ankara escort a schoolmaster in a small village in Yorkshire was not easy. He was well known and respected in the surrounding areas and was expected to retain a staid and demur lifestyle. The growing cult of free love and the swinging sixties had not yet reached this small and isolated part of Yorkshire; and so he learned to button down his libido and simply got on with the job of teaching.

He had done well in ignoring her womanhood, right up until she climbed up on the stool to get some more photographic papers down from the top shelf in the darkroom. In the red glare of the developing light he had watched her stretch to get the boxes of papers and chemicals down from the shelves and he had felt himself stir. She stretched and the material of her shirt had tightened across her breasts, emphasising their shape, her nipples becoming clearly discernable in the hard red light. A sliver of skin had appeared above the waist of her skirt, soft, smooth and untouched. Even then he had not recognised the danger signs and when she appeared unsteady, standing on the stool, he had reached out and put his hands on her waist to hold her.

When the casual touch had happened Gwen was already hot and bothered, the darkroom was stifling and she was tired. She had climbed up on a small stool to get the photographic papers from a top shelf the same way as she had done a hundred times before. She had not long ago restocked the shelves and the so the boxes were higher than usual and she had to go full stretch to reach the top ones. The old wooden stool, although not very high, was rickety and wobbled as she had began to pull the boxes down and she was forced to steady herself against the shelves to avoid letting the boxes fall.

She was suddenly aware of Mr Keitel turning and putting his hands to her waist in an attempt to help her keep her balance. She felt his hands rest on the bared skin at her waist as she stretched to steady the boxes above her head. He held her firmly. When she has stopped wobbling she had expected him to let go of her quickly as teachers always did, they did not touch you unnecessarily; but this time he hadn’t let go, he had simply stood there, his hands on her waist, his thumbs almost imperceptibly moving gently back and forth on the bare patch of her exposed skin.

She was in an awkward position, standing on tip toe, her arms above her head, still supporting the boxes which were hanging half off the shelf. With an effort she pushed the boxes back up onto the shelf and she stood there, her hands still above her head gripping the shelf, waiting for him to move, unsure what to do. After a moment she strained her head around to look over her shoulder, Mr Keitel was standing behind her, perfectly still, his eyes closed; his only movement was the soft motion of his thumbs against her skin.

She waited, her arms beginning to tremble with the pressure of keeping them above her head; and then suddenly, as if on autopilot, his hands began to move, slowly feeling their way around the soft skin of her waist. His hands were large and surprisingly gentle, rubbing in small circles as they moved, making her skin tingle, and her legs to feel surprisingly weak. He moved carefully, with the slow deliberation of a blind man in a half forgotten room, hesitant but captivated by every newly remembered sensation.

His hands moved slowly up beneath her school shirt, soft, slow, movements, moving tentatively in the darkness under her clothes. At first caressing her waist but slowly moving around, inch by inch, to smooth and caress her stomach. Set free by the motion of his hands sudden butterflies fluttered in the pit of her belly, the sensation quickly settling lower in her groin and she tried to press her legs together to contain the sudden and confusing tingling which had started deep in her sex .

She had no compass, no experience as to what she should do so she simply stood there as he began to explore her, offering no resistance, her arms still high above her head gripping the shelf. Her legs trembled, she was caught between the excitement of wanting him to continue and the knowledge that she should cough or something to break the spell, she should drop her arms and tell him to stop but she did neither; she just stood there quietly as his hands moved slowly beneath her clothes, enticingly exciting, a warm and forbidden sensation on her skin.

If her recognised her indecision he showed none himself, lost in his own long suppressed sensations he moved closer, pressing his face between her shoulder blades, his body resting against hers from behind; his spread hands softly holding her stomach, his fingers moving in small circles, sending tremors through her body. Looking down she could clearly see his hands moving beneath her blouse, touching her bare skin, moving slowly higher to reach the pronounced outline of her ribs. Her nipples hardened and she could feel goose bumps suddenly standing up on her legs and arms. His hands were warm and incredibly exciting and she was not frightened, only excited, ankara escort bayan by the intimate journey of his hands beneath her clothes, touching, uncovering, exploring,

His hands moved on again, seeming to rise with infinite slowness, infuriating patience, up her soft, smooth, stomach, over her ribcage until at last they reached the bottom of her bra. This she knew was forbidden territory and she waited; her nipples hardening at his proximity. His hands smoothed gently over her skin, almost paternally, unsettlingly, a soothing touch, not threatening or aggressive, moving slowly over the material at the edge of her bra, tracing it, familiarising themselves. She bit her lip in excitement and her breasts ached with a sudden urge to be touched. She was sweating, the heat and red glare of the darkroom light distorting her perceptions and making her senses swim. His hands moved again, slowly gliding over the silky material of her bra and for the first time she allowed herself to wonder if he was actually going to touch her, there, skin on skin, touch her breasts; and she held her breath, her nipples almost painfully hardening in sudden and hopeful anticipation.

She was so desperately aware of his hands near her breasts that she would later swear that she could feel every whorl on his fingertips. She almost whimpered with excitement as his fingers moved with agonising slowness around the bottom edge of her bra, touching, lingering. She bit her lip and suppressed the urge to scream when his hands finally moved higher, violating forever the unspoken taboos of student/teacher relationships, to cup the underside of her soft, young breasts. She knew instinctively that Mr Keitel had finally crossed the point of no return, his intent to touch was clear.

She leaned forward, closing her eyes, her heart pounding so loudly under his hands that she was sure he could hear it. Her hands still rested on the shelf above her head, her shaking arms still taking the strain. She was terrified to move in case his hands withdrew and ceased their exploration. She willed him on, every fibre of her being urging him to touch her. His hands continued to cup the lower swell of her breasts, gently squeezing her soft flesh. She shivered in response, her breasts seeming to swell with the desperate need to be handled. Sweat ran down her face and her neck, soaking into the material of her shirt. She realised that she was rubbing the top her thighs together, whether to stop or increase the bubbling excitement slowly building between her legs she wasn’t sure.

She wanted to scream, to cry out ‘bloody touch them will you?’ The anticipation was desperate, the urge to sex so strong that it was sweeping away all restraint, she needed to be touched and she needed to be touched now. Then without warning his hands moved higher to close gently but firmly over the soft globes of her firm young breasts. ‘Thank God,” she whispered fervently and suddenly the realisation hit her that the first pair of male hands ever to touch her were gently fondling her breasts and she whimpered quietly, her mouth pressed up against her outstretched arm.

His hands moulded themselves of the shape of her breasts, feeling their warmth and softness, their fullness beneath the soft material. She looked down at his hands ballooning out the material of her shirt as he explored the sudden swell of her bare skin above the cups of her bra. She trembled as he squeezed her breasts together, almost squeezing the breath out of her body. His fingers seemed suddenly knowledgeable and certain as they found her cleavage, drawing beads of sweat down between her breasts, no longer hesitant and shy. One hand found a nipple beneath the material of her bra and she felt a sudden rush of wetness between her legs. She tried to squeeze her thighs together to dissipate the sudden wetness. Her whole body was alight with strange, wonderful and conflicting feelings. Slick with sweat her body was on fire, burning in the bright red light and the glow of his hands.

His hands were moving again, displaying an intimate knowledge her woman’s body. His fingers found and stroked her nipples causing her cry out in surprise. “Are they alright?” she asked, her insecurities showing.

“All right?” he asked distractedly, his voice far away, his fingers dipping inside her bra, scooping a nipple clear. “They are bloody magnificent”, he said and she smiled with a young girls relief.

He rolled the nipple between thumb and forefinger, squeezing with enough pressure to force the air from her body, making it difficult for her to breathe. She closed her eyes as his fingers drew her oversensitive nipple out, elongating it, rolling and squeezing. Her skin was slick with sweat yet her body was on fire, her skin alight, her nipples and breasts sensitized almost to the point of being painful. He squeezed her breast again and she felt herself whimper in submission. “OK,” she thought, “get on with it. You have them in your hands, they’re yours now, feel them, do what you like with them but please keep on touching me!”

As if he had heard escort ankara her, with one hand, he pulled the front of her blouse up and over her breasts in one movement. She gasped at the sudden exposure. He balled the blouse up against her throat and she cried out in surprise as he pulled her back harshly against him, his free hand fastening onto her bared breast, crushing her against his chest. Despite her sexual inexperience she recognised that she was being taken, being used, that this was no gentle seduction. She knew instinctively that if she turned around she would find that his eyes were closed, that he was playing her body through his hands on a screen at the back of his mind, a performer in his own internal play. He was lost in the erotica of the moment; his desire held him totally in its grip, driving him without any real thought of her and who she was and it excited her in turn that her body had so provoked him, so captured him to have driven him to this extreme of action, to cross that drawn in the sand dead man’s line between starched and regulated teacher to this ardent and desperately passionate man.

He held her close to him, his arms around her from behind. She could hear his ragged breathing and feel his face pressing hard against her neck. She could feel his need vibrating in his fingers and his hands; she could almost taste his desire.

Hooking a thumb under her bra, at the narrow point between her breasts, in one motion he lifted it up and out and her breasts tumbled clear. She struggled a little in shock at the abrupt exposure and looking down she was shocked at the sudden feeling of wantonness that flooded through her at the sight of them, jutting naked and proud, glowing flame tipped in the erotic red glare of the darkroom light. She felt a sudden, shameless, joy at their release; an unexpected freedom that baring her breasts brought and she felt a moment of pure reckless, of immorality and abandonment that left her heady and dazed; and then his hands closed over them, claiming them, obscuring them from her sight.

She watched in amazement as his hands claimed them as only a man could do, moulding them, changing their shape, making them his own. A nipple appeared between his fingers, forced out between them like a peach stone by the pressure of his hands. She cried out a mixture of pain and pleasure as his fingers closed together, trapping the nipple, squeezing it until it popped back out of sight and his hands moulded her breasts into yet another unnatural, exciting, manmade shape that left her gasping and desperate for more.

Without warning he pushed her forward and away from him and taken by surprise she reached up and gripped the shelves for support. As she struggled for balance he grabbed the bottom of her blouse at the back and hauled it up and over her head, leaving her struggling to free her hands from her sleeves while he pulled at her bra strap, quickly unsnapping it. He impatiently pushed the loose bra from her shoulders and reaching around her and ignoring her struggles he pulled her arms free of the damp blouse, discarding it and the bra in one movement, throwing them into a corner somewhere behind them.

He briefly stroked along her naked shoulders before his arms went around her and he pulled her back hard against him once more, pinning her to him, his hands instantly at her naked breasts again It was all a blur for her, he was moving too quickly for her to take it in, to regain control; his hands on her body, manipulating her, turning her this way and that for his pleasure, her growing nakedness, her nakedness glowing in the sensual red glow of the lamp; a whirl of sensation that distorted her senses and made her head spin. He was moving her like a doll, pushing her forward, undressing her, pulling her back, grabbing her breasts and working her nipples, her breath was ragged and her head swam. She could feel the slick lines of sweat in her cleavage as he kneaded and rolled her breasts in his workmanlike hands.

She wanted to scream, she was flying high on sensation as he pulled her tight up against him, his fingers rolling over her flesh. Her nipples hardened and puckered as he found them again and explored their shape and texture before releasing them to squeeze and fondle her breast before going back to her nipples again. She groaned with pleasure as he pulled on them, worked them; and somewhere in the back of her head she vaguely wondered how he knew how to do that. It had taken her years of experiment, alone in her bed at night, to discover how to please herself and yet here he was, the first man to touch her and he seemed to know how to do it to her almost without thinking, without problem.

He rolled her nipples between his thumb and forefinger, a sensation that ran through her sex forcing her to press her legs together again. He squeezed her breasts, hard enough to make her legs tremble and she hung her head as her climax built, gasping for breath, the sensations overwhelming her as she fought for control of her body. She tried to close her eyes against the feel of his fingers and the strange red light that flooded her senses, distending her nipples and painting his hands and she vaguely wondered if she was going to faint, like the reluctant heroine in the type of bodice ripping story her mum always read.

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